


All the Scattered Light

by TheFictionFairy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sort of), Action, Case Fic, Character Study, Compare and Contrast, Divergent Timelines, Fun With Alternate Timelines, Gen, Gun Violence, Inspired by Fanart, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFictionFairy/pseuds/TheFictionFairy
Summary: They all know how to destroy a monster.After the fall of SHIELD, Steve and Natasha are left to try to pick up the pieces and find the Winter Soldier. They may have a new lead - highly classified intel stored in one of Hydra's own well-disguised databases. But they're not the only ones with their eyes on that particular prize.





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All The Scattered Light (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718245) by [SgtGraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtGraves/pseuds/SgtGraves). 



> Warnings for gun violence, hostage-taking, minor character death, and dangerous situations involving a minor.

 

“without becoming one”

* * *

 “We are a go. Establishing radio silence now.”

Steve shifted his weight from foot to foot as he reached up to switch his hidden com to a secure, muted channel, already missing Natasha’s presence in his ear. He hated undercover work, but there were so few people that they could trust now with S.H.I.E.L.D gone that more often than not they had to run down leads on Bucky personally. Still, there had been plenty of time for her to brief him on the plane ride, so at least he knew his part.

As Natasha had instructed, Steve waited for a count of five before taking a deep breath and beginning his walk, turning the corner and making his way toward the entrance of the impressively modern building as casually as he could. He didn’t understand the appeal of modern banks, really. Steve’s idea of a bank was a solid fortress built of brick and metal, with a large vault door to intimidate any potential thieves. Buildings like this – sleek and bright and more like offices than anything else – struck him as incredibly flimsy.

Then again, the things worth keeping under lock and key had changed since his day. Whereas when he was a kid people put gold or jewels or cash in physical vaults, nowadays the real treasures, Natasha and Sam assured him, had mostly gone digital. This particular bank was apparently a cutting-edge outfit with a huge ultra-secure database housed alongside the more traditional bank accounts and lockboxes.

Steve spotted Natasha a few paces closer to the entrance than him, coming from the opposite way. She was dressed in a smart pantsuit and carrying a huge purse on her shoulder, sunglasses askew on her head as she fumbled around inside of it. Steve realized she wasn’t going to look up in time to avoid running straight into the door, so he took the hint to jog ahead and open it for her.

“Oh, thanks,” Natasha said politely, eyes absently scanning him without a hint of recognition showing on her face. She almost immediately went back to digging through her bag. Steve nodded at her, hoping the same vaguely polite look was on his face, and kept moving toward the line for the tellers.

There was a portly old security guard sitting at a little desk just inside the door. “Looking for your sunglasses, miss?” the man called to Natasha just as Steve passed him. The man was gray-haired, with a friendly, wrinkled face. He was probably just for show, as most of the building’s security was supposedly high-tech enough to function automatically. Still, Steve did make a mental note of the gun on the man’s hip.

Steve couldn’t look back without seeming too interested, but he heard Natasha make a vague affirmative noise, and then an “oh!”

“Thank you so much!” he heard her say, clearly turning on the charm. The guard chuckled and didn’t ask to look inside her bag.

Scratch office building – Steve thought that on the inside this bank looked more like a fancy hotel than anything else. Anyone walking in was greeted by a wide open, marble-embellished lobby stretching between the entrance and the teller windows, several plush seating areas with artwork, indoor plants, and desks dotting the floor at intervals widely spaced enough to give the illusion of privacy. Closed-off offices with frosted glass doors lined the walls to the left and right between decorative architectural columns, a pattern repeated on the floor above that could be glimpsed beyond the railings of the balcony hallways overlooking the lobby. There were also several hallways leading off into the back of the building, concealing in the distance the entrances to what were, according to the blueprints he and Natasha had studied, the actual secure storage areas of the bank.

There were a number of people in at the moment – about twelve customers, with a couple of bank employees at the teller windows on the main floor and who knew how many employees in those semi-visible offices, Steve noticed with some dismay. Natasha would probably tell him that it was good camouflage, having a crowd to blend into, but Steve didn’t like dealing with so many variables in enemy territory. Though in the months since the incident in DC, most of the Hydra personnel at the bank appeared to have vanished, they couldn’t be one hundred percent sure everyone still working here were the innocent people hired to give the institution its false legitimacy. Well, except for Natasha’s contact, a tech guy that had been embedded as a teller here back before everything had happened, a (rightly, as it turned out) paranoid Fury positioning him personally to investigate the institution’s shady financial dealings. Natasha wouldn’t have called this mission if she hadn’t completely vetted her intel.

The plan was to meet up with Natasha’s contact on the teller floor, where he would then lead them down to Sub-Level Four, the only point in the building besides the bank director’s personal office to have access to the secure database. Once there, they would retrieve as much data from the Hydra files as they could without being detected, and then hopefully leave through the front door as smoothly as they’d come in, without alerting any potential leftover Hydra spies that they were ever there.

According to Natasha’s contact, the bank was severely understaffed today due to a nasty flu outbreak – there were only two tellers scheduled to work the floor, so Steve and Natasha got in line one right after another to guarantee that one of them would be called to see him without it seeming choreographed. The person that was called to the other teller was to stall for as long as possible with inquiries about opening an account to give the pair their privacy.

It seemed like a simple enough mission on paper. Then again, Steve knew better than to trust that meant anything in the real world.

* * *

John Randall resisted the urge to check his watch again. He knew what time it was, he knew what time Agent Romanoff would be there (two minutes to go) and the nervous tick would just give him away, which would be unacceptable. Enough had already gone wrong today.

It was all Brenda’s fault. She’d gotten sick just like many other people in the office had after he’d added that contaminant to their coffee machine. She had said yesterday that she wouldn’t be in today, meaning it would have been just him and his overworked, easily-distracted supervisor on this shift. But there Brenda was, picking up the extra hours despite her hacking and wheezing and sniffling and leaking. All because she was saving up for a vacation to the Bahamas.

John wished he was in the Bahamas. Good God, he could go for a mai tai and a nap on the beach right about now.

There was Romanoff getting into the back of the short line with Rogers. John counted the number of customers ahead of them and tried to do some quick mental math to estimate at which windows they’d end up.

_Three, two, one…_

“May I help the next customer?”

An unfamiliar civilian man in his mid-forties, accompanied by a teenage girl (that John could only hope was his daughter) approached the window.

_…Damn._

“I’m here to access my safety deposit box.” The man rested his hands up on the counter, tapping his fingers impatiently. The daughter – about fifteen or sixteen, if John had to guess – shifted the weight of her backpack impatiently and picked at her ragged, brightly painted fingernails, looking antsy and distracted. Probably bored to be running errands with her father, if John had to guess. John thought about snorkeling with tropical fish to keep his customer service smile from turning into a frustrated grimace as first Romanoff and then Rogers were called to the other windows in short order.

“What account, sir?” John asked, taking down the man’s information mechanically as he watched Rogers end up in front of Brenda and Romanoff get stuck with his supervisor Deborah.

“And may I see your identification, sir?” he asked, deciding that lighting his tropical beach scented candle would be the thing to do as soon as he got home from this miserably botched day.

“Oh, I see that your safety deposit box is on Sub-Level Four,” John said once the account information came up. “Excuse me for one moment, sir. I’ll have to have my supervisor step in as soon as she’s finished helping her client, as she is the only available person right now cleared for that particular level.” Officially, John didn’t have access to the secure database, so he had to keep his cover until he could somehow pull one of Fury’s agents aside–

“Well, how long is this going to take?” _Well, he got snippy quick._ John Randall took a deep breath and resisted the urge to check his watch.

* * *

As John Randall stepped away from his station to alert his supervisor Deborah that she was needed as soon as she was available, a loud sneeze echoed through the large room, quickly followed by six others in rapid succession. Most people turned to look at the cause of the commotion – a red-nosed, runny-eyed, pale and clammy teller whose name tag labeled her as “Brenda.”

“Bless you, ma’am,” said the customer at her window, a polite, if slightly pained, smile on his face.

Most of the other customers looked away, quickly bored or disgusted. But the girl at John Randall’s window tugged on her father’s sleeve, eyes widening with recognition of the face that had been all over the news – and more importantly for her, the internet. “Dad, is that–”

Her father looked over to where the large blond man was stammering his way through an interaction with the now coughing teller. His eyes narrowed, jaw going tense. Though he had never met the man in person, he recognized Captain America as well. “Peanut. Go offer that poor woman a tissue,” he said, signaling with his hand like he was swatting a fly.

The girl started a bit. “…Really?” she asked, face pinched with nerves.

“Really,” her father replied, voice going hard.

The girl’s eyes widened and she quickly nodded. “Right.” The teenager shrugged out of her backpack and passed it to her father before squaring her shoulders and making a beeline for the sick teller, her nervous energy putting a bounce in her step as she cut in front of Captain America.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” the girl asked, voice tight and high. “S’cuse me,” she tossed over her shoulder at the Captain as offered the woman a packet of tissues. “Here, do you need one of these? Here you go. I’ve got more–”

“Uh–” Captain America began, but the girl cut him off again, as bubbly as she dared, just slightly too loud, and – most importantly – distracting.

“Sorry to interrupt, just – what’s your name?” the teenager asked the sniffling woman, the note of sympathy in her voice strong enough to coax a response.

“Brenda.”

“–Brenda, should you be working? No offence, but you seem really sick.”

“I’m okay–” the woman behind the counter protested weakly, only to be interrupted by another deep coughing fit that set her eyes to tearing up.

The teenager let Brenda’s hacking peter out in its own time, keeping a surreptitious eye on the Captain to ensure that he was still watching the exchange instead of her father. “Brenda, sweetie, you owe it to yourself to be honest about what you need.”

Brenda’s face reddened, then crumbled as she began wail. “I’m sorry! I’m trying. But I’m just so tired, and full of snot with this stupid flu going around and a bunch of people just up and quit without notice a little while ago so we’re understaffed and– ”

“Okay, whoa–” the blond man behind the girl interjected, clearly panicking at the sight of the sick, exhausted woman bursting into tears, holding up his hands in surrender and beginning to look around for help. The girl’s smile dropped – she had to get back on track, make Brenda stop crying.

“Oh, honey!” the girl interrupted between hiccups and coughs, “you should probably go home.”

“But they need me, and I have to finish with–”

“Of course! But you have to promise me – hey! Look at me!” Brenda startled a bit at the forceful interjection, but the girl couldn’t think of any other way to cover her demand for Captain America’s attention, so she just barreled on, “…promise me that no matter what, no matter how understaffed they are, no matter what they think of you leaving, no matter how furious your boss may be, no matter how–”

“Seriously?” the Captain sighed behind her, and she was losing his attention, her father was going to be so disappointed–

“Gun!”

Everyone in the building flinched, and turned to find the source of the sudden shout. The chubby, silver-haired security guard was on his feet, eyes wide with alarm, reaching for his sidearm, when–

Three sharp gunshots cracked the air, and three pools of red bloomed on the chest of the old man’s white uniform shirt. He fell to the ground.

A heartbeat passed, and then all hell broke loose.

One of the tellers must have hit the alarm, because there was a sudden clang as security doors slammed shut over all the building’s exits. Some people screamed, some took off blindly running, some dropped and huddled behind furniture. In the chaos, Steve and Natasha whirled to find the shooter. Natasha reached quickly into her large bag, Steve gathered himself to charge–

A deafening screech rang out, the sound wave hitting Steve like a physical blow, lifting him off of his feet and throwing him into Natasha, both of them flung several feet backward before crashing to the ground and rolling haphazardly to a skidding stop several feet away from each other on the marble floor.

Steve attempted to gather his bearings to stand and face the threat, but his ears were ringing, a high, constant, needling tone as his vision wobbled dangerously in front of his eyes. He shook his head frantically, ignoring the dull pain the motion brought, willing sound to come back into the world.

Slowly, it did – distorted and soft, like he was underwater.

“Everybody on the ground!”

A shape came close and loomed over him – the image sharpened and softened periodically, like a camera that wouldn’t quite focus. A man, mid-forties – the shooter, _the shooter_ , he–

The gunman leaned down and struck Captain America hard across the head with the butt of his pistol. Under normal circumstances the blow wouldn’t have phased the super soldier, but now it set his head to ringing all over again. Steve’s vision spun and darkened as he choked down a sudden wave of nausea.

“Head count, Peanut!” the shooter boomed, a confident, energized smile splitting his face as he handed the teenage girl a gun of her own out of the school bag he carried. The girl took it with a grimace but obediently moved around the room to gather their new hostages.

“Now, I don’t have to tell you people that nobody leaves until I get what I want, do I?” the gunman asked, sitting down on one of the plush chairs in the middle of the floor and putting his feet up on a polished glass table. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I only have this,” he gestured with his gun almost lazily, “to use on you.” He glanced over at where Captain America was still shakily trying to get to his feet and chuckled.

“He said nobody leaves!” the girl barked, moving around a door frame and entering the teller’s side of the windows to usher them out onto the main floor.

“Hey! Stay down!” the girl shouted at Steve, who had just managed to get to one knee. His head was still fuzzy, but the ringing was mostly a dull background tone and his vision was no longer spinning. He caught sight of Natasha, her small, previously-concealed gun in her hand, crouched behind a desk near the entrance to one of the back hallways, out of the line of sight of the shooter or the girl. Natasha held a finger to her lips, then motioned that she was going to make a break for it. Smart move – better to have an ally in play free in the building than try to pick a firefight with someone who had powers they didn’t understand. Steve tried to make his eyes focus on the shooter so that the hostile pair wouldn’t follow his gaze to her.

“Listen, listen!” Steve said, putting as much authority into his voice as he could muster while he still kind of wanted to throw up. “I don’t know who you are… I don’t – I don’t know what you want. But these people,” Steve gestured vaguely at the people who had been shepherded into the center of the room – away from Natasha. “They aren’t a part of whatever this is. They don’t have to get hurt.”

“That’s up to you then, isn’t it?” said the shooter, smiling in a bland, utterly comfortable way, getting up to amble around the room. He weaved, unconcerned, between the crouched and whimpering civilians. “Peanut. Let’s let Captain America prove how serious he is about cooperating with us and keeping these nice people safe. You– ” the shooter suddenly reached down and yanked at Brenda’s arm, forcing her to stand with a pained cry, “–you minions don’t have access to level four? But do you have access to the head boss’s office?”

“I can’t – We don’t – They – They don’t give us–” Brenda stammered through panicked breaths.

The shooter began to look annoyed. “You’re doing a terrible job of bargaining for your life, Brenda,” he said, bringing his gun up to press under her jaw.

Brenda hiccuped out a squeak of fear. “I – I–”

“Answer him!” the girl shouted from across the room, startling everyone but her father, whose smile only widened.

John Randall closed his eyes and cursed Brenda’s Caribbean vacation aspirations. “I can! I have access,” he said, trying to remember the talk he’d had with Fury about how he was the right man for this job, even if he was just a nerdy tech guy – about how he was smart, and brave, and how he had the right stuff. How he was serving a greater purpose, and how Fury trusted him to get to the truth.

With guns pointed at his face, John felt like that talk had happened to someone else. But as he watched Brenda cry, he said anyway, voice only shaking a little: “I can get you into the database.”

The shooter paused, biting his lip and assessing. Then, he broke into another energized grin. “Good man! You should thank him, you know,” the gunman admonished Brenda, throwing her back down to the floor, “that guy just borrowed you some time.”

* * *

“How much longer?” demanded the gunman, tapping his fingers quickly on the arms of the fancy desk chair in the bank director’s lavish office, which had an elaborately unnecessary balcony overlooking the foyer below, where most of the hostages – Captain America included – still waited.

“A few minutes!” John Randall answered, voice high and stressed. Thoughts of mai tais and massages were not soothing enough to make him sound anywhere near calm. “Maybe more?! Look, y-you’re asking me to download a huge amount of data to you and then scrub it from our systems! Do you have any idea–”

“Inhuman stuff gets priority, even if you have to scrub everything else before you copy it.” John nodded his head frantically to show that he understood, not liking the agitation in the shooter’s voice or the way he appeared to be getting twitchy.

“No moving!” John flinched at the yell from downstairs, where the terrifying teenage girl was keeping the other hostages at gunpoint.

The shooter grinned at John’s jump. “Give me another head count, Peanut,” he called over the balcony railing, before leaning back in the fancy chair. “Tick tock, tick tock, Mr. Randall.”

A minute went by; some progress was made.

Then, panicked, from downstairs: “Where’s the woman?”

The shooter furrowed his brown and hurried to look over the balcony railing. “What woman?” he called down.

“The boss woman,” the daughter called back up, “the one that can get us to level four. She’s not here anymore!”

The shooter’s face spasmed into a grimace. “Go find her. Give us a shout if there’s any trouble.” He held the gun over the railing conspicuously, “and everybody down there remember that you’re all just fish in a barrel to me.”

* * *

Natasha gingerly made her way forward, gun out, mindful of any additional hostiles that may be in play. The bank floor shift supervisor, a woman with curly, graying hair whose name tag said was “Deborah,” followed close behind at Natasha’s signal. Once she was sure they were out of earshot of the powered shooter and his daughter, Natasha turned to the older woman. “Ma’am, help will be on the way soon, but right now, for the safety of everyone in the building and for the sake of national security, I need access to your security credentials.”

Deborah looked taken aback by the request, but then she drooped with relief. “We’re going to be alright aren’t we? These back halls are like a maze – they won’t find us here!”

“Ma’am, I–” Natasha cut herself off abruptly, straining to hear what she thought might have been the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Is everything alright?” Natasha held up a hand to silence the woman. _…There_. Faintly, barely audible – someone very stealthy was sneaking around back here with them.

Natasha leaned into Deborah’s ear and whispered as softly as she could: “We need to be quick. Is there a secure place you can get to? An office that locks?”

“Yes, you need a keycard to get into these offices–” Deborah’s answering whisper was harsh and carrying, and Natasha put a hand over her mouth.

“Get in one and lock the door behind you,” she instructed the shocked woman. “Don’t come out until law enforcement gives you the all clear.”

Wide-eyed, Deborah nodded and scurried to the nearest doorway, swiping her key card and then tossing it to Natasha as she slipped inside the door. Natasha caught it easily in the hand that wasn’t holding the gun and hurried forward on near-silent feet, determined to catch whoever was back here with her by surprise.

In the end, they caught each other by surprise.

Natasha had the hostile right where she wanted them – trapped in a long hallway with few intersections to dart into, which was the best she could do for a kill box in this building. She raised her gun and darted out of hiding, catching him in her sights–

For half a heartbeat she didn’t recognize the person in front of her. The ratty clothing, scraggly beard, and the greasy hair didn’t match the visual of anyone she’d seen in the building so far, and he had looked so different – almost inhumanly blank – the last time they had crossed paths. But there stood James Buchanan Barnes, eyes wide and desperate, tense as a deer in headlights.

She noticed his eyes flick to the side, toward an exit. Flight over fight for now. Good. But not great. Natasha’s mind raced, suggesting and discarding what to say to him almost instantaneously. She didn’t know his mind, she didn’t know what was left of it, didn’t know what he needed to hear to–

“Hey!” Natasha recognized the voice of the shooter’s daughter and deemed her a more immediate threat than the man who looked like he’d rather bolt than throw a punch. She spun and pointed her gun at the girl, but just before she had the shot–

A deafening screech split the air, the sound wave hitting Natasha like a wall of bricks, throwing her backwards and slamming her into an actual wall.

* * *

“How much longer?” the man with the gun growled over his shoulder from his perch. He was leaned over the balcony railing to watch the hostages huddled in the center of the floor below, but it was clear he was beginning to get twitchy the longer his partner was gone.

Steve had the wrong angle to see the man that had been pulled up to the office to work the computers, the desk too far back from the railing to be in line of sight. “It’s almost…”

“I’ve noticed you’ve stopped typing,” snapped the gunman, turning and leaning his back along the balcony railing to face the man at the desk. Steve tensed, head whipping around in the instant of privacy to assess his options. The external doors looked to be bolted shut, and the offices had electronic locks that required keycards he didn’t have. There were too many civilians to get them all out of the line of fire before the gunman could take out at least a few, and–

“M-My part is done,” the trembling voice of the computer expert rang out in the otherwise quiet lobby. “Everything’s running on its own now. All that’s left is to wait for it to finish.”

“Excellent,” declared the shooter, who swung his gun back from over the balcony railing to point at the hostage. Before Steve could even shout, the gunman had fired.

In the foyer, people screamed.

Steve reacted as if the gunshot had been a starter’s pistol, lunching forward into a dead sprint and kicking off of a desk to leap toward the railing of the balcony, which he caught and hauled himself over in a smooth movement. The shooter had time to whip his head around in Steve’s direction, but not time to dodge the full-body tackle.

The shooter let out a yell as he hit the ground, gun skidding way as he lost his grip. Steve was on him, get him into a hold, ready to–”

A piercing shriek and a wave of percussive force hit Steve totally off guard and sent him crashing back over the balcony and sprawling on the ground.

“Dad, are you okay?” Steve heard from the bottom of the ocean, stretched and distorted and ringing all at once.

“Glad you’re back, Peanut,” came the twisted reply.

Steve jerked when someone touched his shoulder, but he looked up and managed to focus his eyesight enough to place Natasha. Once she was sure he wouldn’t fight her, she began to pull him to his feet, staggering toward the hallway entrance from which she’d just come.

“Everybody back in your goddamn places!” the gunman shouted down to the hostages, out of breath and clearly off balance. But Steve and Natasha were already gone.

They stumbled through the halls together, leaning on each other, Steve blindly following Natasha through the twists and turns. Finally, the came to an area she must have deemed safe enough, because she pulled a keycard and ushered them into a dark personal office to take a breather.

“Have you been in contact with anyone outside?” Steve asked as soon as his ears stopped ringing enough to hear Natasha’s low response.

“No,” she huffed, slumping to the ground and attempting to feel along her lower leg to find out what exactly what had been damaged by that last blast before the gunshot had distracted the girl. “But we missed our check in so they should be cutting their way through the perimeter lockdown by now. I didn’t manage to access the database before Screech over there found me. Thanks for warning me, by the way.”

Steve huffed a laugh, cracking his jaw to try and get his eardrums to pop and relieve some of the pressure still ringing around in there. “My coms were fried.” They blew during the initial sonic attack, as best as Steve could remember.

Natasha gripped her toes and attempted to manually rotate her ankle, growling under her breath at the results. “Any idea who this guy is? What he wants?”

“He’s after something in the Hydra database. Kept telling the hacker to pull information on inhumans.”

Natasha huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if she wasn’t in pain. “That explains a lot.”

Steve bit his lip. “Seems like he’s almost done with whatever it is he’s doing.” He paused, and decided the only way out was through. “Far enough along to kill your contact.”

Natasha said a word that sounded sort of like Russian but mostly like cursing.

“It’s only a matter of time before he does something with the hostages to cover his exit,” she said after a moment, brows furrowed like she was thinking through a math problem.

“You think he’ll move them?”

Natasha shrugged. “Unlikely. Too much baggage. And daddy’s little princess is already plenty of protection. No…” she looked to the ceiling for a moment, eyes flicking with the racing of her thoughts. “If it were me? I would wound as many as possible without outright killing them – make it so that they need immediate medical attention as priority one, to tie first responders to the scene. Get a head start.”

Steve did not comment on the opening of that little speech. “We need a plan.” Natasha opened her mouth to suggest something, but he cut her off. “Scratch that. I need a plan. One that doesn’t involve you on that leg.”

Natasha scowled at him. “You shouldn’t go back in there alone. That girl’s voice hits like a brick wall. You felt it.”

Steve wasn’t ever going to be as good a spy as Natasha, but even he picked up on the fact that she hadn’t argued. “I’ll figure something out.”

* * *

There was blood and brain matter soaking into the fancy office’s fancy carpeting. The girl had stepped in some of it on her mad dash toward her father. She was pale and swayed a bit on her feet, unable to stop staring at the corpse, clearly fighting back bile. “…Dad…”

The gunman glanced up at where his daughter was looking and rolled his eyes. “That’s not important, honey,” he said, clear strain under the sugary sweetness in his voice. “What is important is getting what we came for.” When his daughter still didn’t look at him, he became annoyed. “Peanut! Come here,” he called, voice firm. The girl gulped and went to her father, who cupped her head with the hand not currently occupied by a gun. He sighed hard through is nose and pasted on a brittle, manic smile. “I can’t do this without you.” When she still would not look him in the eye, he crouched down a few inches to her level, trailing his hand down to her shoulder and shaking her just hard enough to jostle her. “You’re my girl. My little Peanut?”

The girl hunched her shoulders, wide-eyed. “Yeah, I just–” like a magnet, the bloody scene behind them pulled her eyes around.

Her father shook her again, his impatience at her lack of attention clear and sharp. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be. You don’t want to be difficult, do you?”

The girl flinched. Then she took a deep breath, and looked up at him with trust shining in her eyes. “No, Dad. You know best. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, baby,” he said, pulling her in for a one-armed hug. “Sometimes you have to do hard things for the people you love. Isn’t that right, my little Peanut?”

The girl shuddered a bit, but she did not start crying. “I love you, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“You know what we’ve gotta to do now,” said the shooter, steering her toward the balcony to gaze down at the group of huddled people. The girl looked up at her father over her shoulder, eyes wide and startled. “I don’t have enough bullets, Peanut. It’s gotta be you.”

The girl went pale and began to shake. “I…”

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” came the voice of Captain America, ringing out from somewhere below them and making them both flinch. They began to search the area frantically with their eyes, but the Captain was far enough back that he was out of line of sight, and therefore line of fire.

The gunman wrapped his arm around his daughter from behind, pressing his chest to her back to keep her facing the hostages, his gun also pointed at them. “Yes, she does,” he called in a frantic sort of sing-song. “You’re not going to stop us from getting out of here!”

“You don’t want to hurt these people.” Captain America’s voice echoed in the large room, bouncing and booming off of marble and glass so that no one could be sure quite where it was coming from. “The police will be here soon. Best thing you can do now is surrender. No one else has to get hurt.”

“She can and will hurt whoever I tell her to, and you are pushing us dangerously close to pulling that trigger, Captain!” barked the shooter, pushing on his daughter’s shoulders so that she was leaning over the balcony – over the small, terrified crowd.

“She can speak for herself,” there was a pause, and the girl held her breath. “You can choose not to hurt these people. You can choose not to listen to him.”

“She’s not going to!” the shooter barked out into the empty air, shaking the girl by the shoulders for lack of another target. “She knows what’s best for her!”

Steve realized the gunman was becoming more and more agitated the longer this went on – he wasn’t sure he could stall long enough for backup. The one silver lining was that the girl had been quiet since he first called out to her, holding off on the sonic attacks. He wasn’t going to be able to take out the gunman if he was too busy fighting her. He needed her to stand down. “You owe it to yourself to be honest about what you need!” Steve cried, hoping that her own words would have the desired effect on her.

“Dad, I–” The girl’s voice is high and stressed and scared – for the first time, she sounded as young as she actually was.

“Quiet! Do as you’re told!”

The girl let out a sob and Steve prayed that she could hold on to sense. “Dad, I don’t want to–”

“It doesn’t matter!” There was the sound of a punch landing hard on flesh, the dull thump of a body hitting the ground. Steve saw red and began a mad dash for the back staircase, which would empty him out into the hallway by the office without putting the hostages in the line of fire.

“You know how difficult you are to deal with,” Steve heard the gunman holler as he took the stairs three at a time, “all those little inhuman ‘accidents’ that I had to cover for you? You’re lucky I’m so goddamn forgiving! Are you aware ow much we could do with freaks like you? I’m helping you learn to do the only thing you’re good for–!”

Steve burst through the stairwell door just in time to see the gunman pull his arm back to strike his daughter across the face with the butt of his gun. But before Steve could make a move, an unearthly screeching ripped into his ears, driving him to his knees, hands clasped near-uselessly over his aching ears.

“ _No!_ ” cried the gunman. It took all of Steve focus to look up and realize that the man was writhing on the ground as well, clearly in the same incredible pain that was echoing through Steve’s skull. The scream was not a directed blast like the ones she had hit him with before, but it was still inhumanly powerful, incapacitating everyone who had the misfortune to be in hearing range.

“You ungrateful little bitch!” the cried, his deep booming yell barely audible over the high-pitched racket coming from the girl’s mouth. It felt like it was literally needling its way into Steve’s brain. He registered that he was slightly worse off than the gunman appeared to be, and cursed his sensitive super soldier hearing.

Steve saw the man reach for his gun, and heard the blissful split-second silence when the girl’s inhuman shrieking paused as she gasped at the sight of her father taking aim in her direction.

Steve was too far away from her. He wouldn’t reach her in time. He knew it, they all knew it–

The girl opened her mouth and screamed, louder and longer than ever before.

* * *

It took everyone in the building several minutes to recover from the auditory assault they experienced. Many people – Steve included, he was both ashamed and impressed to admit – blacked out for a short while under the physical strain. Even getting people back to their feet was difficult and disorienting, heads throbbing and ears ringing as their eyes and stomachs threatened rebellion.

It took an additional precious few minutes for Steve and Natasha to find each other again, stumbling around half-deaf and disoriented, the world silent save for a high-pitched ringing in their ears. Natasha had motioned for them to move back up to the office where the final confrontation had happened, and they had helped each other stumble up the steps, fighting vertigo as their hearing slowly returned.

Once there, Natasha moved her contact’s body out of the way of the computer terminal with only a slight wrinkling of her nose.

She showed more frustration once she’d had a chance to examine the computer.

“Damn it. It’s all gone.”

Steve looked up at her from his spot across the room, crouched over the body of the gunman. It was a mess. Many people who had been indirectly exposed to the scream had been bleeding from their ears, some from their noses, but this guy – well. It was a mess.

“The girl–”

Natasha looked at him – saw his face, his eyes, and the set of his jaw. She sighed deeply through her nose. “Go, Steve. I’ll coordinate from here.”

It didn’t take long for Steve to follow the bloody shoeprints down the maze of halls in the building. The girl stood at an intersection of hallways, looking around with uncertainty. She was chewing on her brightly-painted fingernails.

“Hey,” Steve called gently. The girl turned to look at him, and she looked… odd. Tired. Relieved. Sad. Scared. Haunted. He knew that look. “Hey. I’m Steve. What’s your name?”

“Melanie.”

“Okay Melanie,” Steve said. His gut was telling him one thing, the little voice Natasha had beaten into the back of his head was telling him another. Ignoring the responsible Natasha voice, Steve stepped forward. “Everything’s gonna be okay–”

At his approach, the girl flinched. “Stay back! I–!” She began breathing rapidly – shallow, panicky breaths.

“Okay!” Steve was quick to reassure her, backing up again. “…I know you’re scared.”

“I didn’t mean– I just– he! He just–!”

“I know. Melanie? I hear you. What you did was self-defense.”

The girl froze for a long moment, blinking wide, wet eyes at him. Whatever she saw on his face must have comforted her, because she seemed to deflate. “But I…”

“I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. I believe that. You did the right thing, not hurting those people down there.” Steve took a tentative step forward. When the girl didn’t react, he took another. “You can still do the right thing.” Another step.

“I… I just… I wanted…” Melanie choked out a sob.

Steve wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he also didn’t want to spook her. “Melanie, can you look at me?” he asked. She nodded, but it took her a few breaths to look at him. “I’m right here, Melanie.”

She stared at him for a moment, interrupted only when they both heard shouts and sirens coming from the direction of the main entrance. Law enforcement had finally broken through, it seemed. At Steve’s side, Melanie gave a watery laugh. “I think this is the part where I get arrested.”

Steve offered her his hand. “Is that gonna be okay?”

Melanie looked into his eyes, and took it. “I think so.”

* * *

In the end, they were lucky to have made it through with as few casualties as they did.

Three people were dead. One of them Steve didn’t feel the least bit sorry about. Steve and Natasha gave their on-scene debrief to the local authorities, were triaged by the ambulance that had been called in along with the police, and then were shuffled out of the way to be dealt with after all the other priorities. They watched the chaos of it all, illuminated in blue and red flashing lights, curled on one of the ridiculously plush sofas in the lobby of this ridiculous excuse for a bank.

“Was it really him?” Steve asked, too exhausted to be hopeful.

“There’s no way to know for sure. It was only a split second image in between a couple of rounds of intense head trauma. And that system wipe took everything in the database including the building’s security footage, so there’s no objective record–”

“Nat.”

Natasha chewed her bottom lip for just a second, something done for his benefit, to signal her uncertainty. “That’s what it looked like in the moment.”

Steve closed his eyes and very deliberately did not get his hopes up. He thought about how Bucky – the Bucky he knew was still in there somewhere – wouldn’t have wanted Steve to sacrifice all those innocent bystanders, or this girl to her father, just to reunite with him.

After a moment he opened his eyes again, looking out at the police car where Melanie had been peacefully loaded in just a few minutes ago.

“Think she’s gonna be okay?”

“I think she has a shot. Thanks to you.”

Steve smiled bitterly. “Thanks to me?” He hung his head, shrugging in mock self-depreciation. “I shouldn’t have let her go that far.” Steve paused for a moment, then added solemnly: “she shouldn’t have to carry that. I could’ve gotten there sooner and–”

“Steve,” Natasha interrupted him firmly. She tilted her head to look him straight in the eye, and she refused to let him look away. “Stop that. It’s not your fault. You can’t control other people’s choices. All you can do is try to make choices you can live with.”

Steve looked out at the blue and red flashing lights, and at the girl asleep in the car underneath them. He thought maybe he did.


	2. Natasha

“because she is one” 

* * *

“We are a go. Establishing radio silence now.”

Natasha switched her com to the secure channel and wandered toward the entrance of the bank, already digging around in the comically oversized purse she carried. She distractedly shifted through the odds and ends of mundane detritus she’d placed inside to disguise the hidden x-ray proof compartments that carried her sidearm. The profile of the day guard had been promising – an older, semi-retired man who by all accounts was more interested in making small talk than actually guarding anything – so she was relatively certain she could charm her way past him without a bag examination, but Natasha liked to have failsafes. Nothing was ever certain.

On her periphery she saw Steve jog forward to open the door for her. Good – another layer of armor for her cover: a woman so flighty that she nearly walked into a door. No one expected any trouble from a person like that.

“Oh, thanks,” Natasha said politely. She looked up at Steve and let her eyes scan over him absently – the nice handsome stranger that held the door open for people with their hands full. A muscle jumped in Steve’s jaw as he worked not to make any kind of telling expression, so Natasha quickly went back to digging through her bag to give him an out. In her periphery she caught his perfunctory nod. He certainly wasn’t the best partner she’d ever had on an undercover op, but he was improving. Prep time – and not being hunted by the government – helped with that.

She paused just inside the door, giving Steve a chance to move past her – and the guard a chance to swoop in and rescue the absent-minded damsel.

“Looking for your sunglasses, miss?” She had him. Natasha looked up at the guard – Edgar Stokes, 63, wife Henrietta, son Thomas, grandchildren Derek and Ashley, no criminal record. Sidearm on his hip that held eight rounds in the clip and one in the chamber.

Natasha gave him a slightly frazzled but friendly smile, with just a hint of self-depreciation in the vague affirmative noise she made. His eyes flashed in lighthearted sympathy, and he motioned to his forehead, mirroring where her sunglasses rested.

“Oh!” she gasped, letting an embarrassed smile flood her face as she pulled the sunglasses off her head and tucked them into the purse. “Thank you so much!”

Stokes chuckled and nodded gently. “My wife always says I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached.” Natasha let out a pleased laugh, nodding in agreement as she picked up stride again toward the teller line. Stokes did not stop her.

As Natasha approached the teller line, she discreetly scanned the building. Everything matched the blueprints she’d studied, no surprises there. She did a head count – twelve customers not including her and Steve. Based on clothing and body language, they appeared to be people running regular errands.

Natasha discreetly sized up the crowd as she got into line directly behind Steve. A couple of middle aged women in gym clothes chatting to each other – no room for concealed weapons, too distracted to be there with any purpose other than the obvious. A college-aged man – if the air of disorganization was a front, it was a convincing one – his shirt probably hadn’t been washed in weeks. Three men in business suits – two busy with their phones, one making such a show of impatience (repeatedly checking his watch and grumbling to himself) that he would have to be the world’s stupidest operative to draw so much attention to himself. A father reading a magazine from one of the tables scattered around the lobby, his teenage daughter looking bored out of her mind and picking at her bright nail polish – and wearing a backpack, Natasha noted, which probably hadn’t been checked, if Natasha’s experience with the guard was anything to go by. A middle aged man in casual clothes – on the phone with his wife if the ‘yes, honey’s and ‘I remember’s were to be believed…

A pregnant woman. Natasha made sure to keep an eye on her – Natasha herself had concealed some interesting things in a fake pregnancy belly on more than one occasion. There was also a woman wearing a stained shirt and a tacky homemade charm bracelet – the fact that she could barely keep her eyes open pointed to at least one young child at home. And lastly, a girl who thought tights were acceptable substitutes for actual pants. Not that Natasha was complaining – there was no way that girl was concealing anything on her person in that outfit.

 _…Damn_. There were three teller windows open instead of the expected two. Randall had assured her he had spread the 24-hour virus as she had instructed, but it appeared that the additional employee had shown up to work anyway. Natasha placed the woman’s face from her files – Brenda Monroe, 27, single, moderate student loan debt and a few parking citations, but nothing to suggest ties with Hydra.

All the embedded Hydra personnel had supposedly fled the establishment after the S.H.I.E.L.D information dump had left them exposed. This particular institution – built as a money laundering operation and drop site for the terrorist organization, with caches of data, false identification, and cash available to Hydra operatives in need of quick resupply – had been small-fry enough in the scheme of things that Hydra had supposedly cut their losses here rather than try to retrieve their assets. However, one could never be sure they hadn’t left any nasty surprises waiting for any white hats who might come sniffing around.

The data was what Natasha and Steve were after today. Because it had been set up as an emergency resupply station for Hydra operatives going off the grid, there might be records of the false identification that their target might be using to get around with. Not to mention any additional information that had been uploaded back when the place was being used as an active drop site would be a boon regardless. It was a longshot that they would find any actionable leads on Barnes here, but they had exhausted all other leads so far. And Natasha couldn’t bring herself to keeping looking at the face Steve made when he was trying not to get his hopes up.

* * *

John Randall resisted the urge to check his watch again. He knew what time it was, he knew what time Agent Romanoff would be there (two minutes to go) and the nervous tick would just give him away, which would be unacceptable. Enough had already gone wrong today.

It was all Brenda’s fault. She’d gotten sick just like many of the other people in the office had after he’d added that contaminant to their coffee machine. She had said yesterday that she wouldn’t be in today, meaning it would have been just him and his overworked, easily-distracted supervisor on this shift, Deborah. But there Brenda was, picking up the extra hours despite her hacking and wheezing and sniffling and leaking. All because she was saving up for a vacation to the Bahamas.

John wished he was in the Bahamas. Good God, he could go for a mai tai and a nap on the beach right about now.

There was Romanoff getting into the back of the short line with Rogers. John counted the number of customers ahead of them and tried to do some quick mental math to estimate at which windows they’d end up.

_Three, two, one…_

“May I help the next customer?”

Rogers had already been called to his supervisor’s window, and at his call, Romanoff stepped in front of him. John barely managed to suppress his sign of relief. She smiled at him – a polite, impersonal smile, but he knew Romanoff’s reputation well enough to feel a little nervous about having her full attention anyway. “Afternoon!” Romanoff greeted him, voice bubbly and light and not at all what he’d pictured for her. “How are you today? Kinda busy?” she asked, glancing casually at the other teller windows and the line leading up to them.

John’s wince wasn’t feigned as he tried to think of a subtle way to explain what had gone wrong – he really wasn’t cut out for this spy thing. “We’re a bit short staffed today. The flu, you know. I expected poor Brenda to call in, but somehow she found the will to be here.”

“Oh, I hope she’s not contagious!” Romanoff exclaimed, eyes wide and sympathetic. John was having a hard time believing that this was the same woman Fury had told him about.

“There’s no way to really tell – best to keep a safe distance,” John replied, casting a suspicious look in Brenda’s direction. Maybe she’d come in for more nefarious reasons than he’d first suspected?

“Anyway, I need access to my safety deposit box,” Romanoff continued blithely.

“Account number and identification, ma’am?”

Romanoff rattled off some meaningless numbers that he pretended to enter into the system and passed over a shockingly good ID that he wouldn’t have been able to spot as a fake if he hadn’t known who she was already.

“Okay, it appears your box is on Sub-Level Four, which will require my supervisor’s access code. I’ll just go get her to open the door for us.” Physical access to that floor was restricted and required a supervisor’s approval, but since they were short staffed Deborah would probably fall into her bad habit of letting lower-level employees accompany customers so that she could oversee the floor. John just thanked his lucky stars that security had gotten more lax after over half the bank employees (Hydra plants) had vanished without notice.

* * *

As her contact John Randall went to procure entry to the vault floor, Natasha continued to nonchalantly survey the crowd. A few people who had been ahead of her and Steve in line had already left, while several more had come in after. The pregnant woman was still in line, and Natasha resolved to keep a better eye on her until she left.

Just as Natasha was doing a cursory evaluation of the newcomers, a particularly loud sneeze from the sick teller, Brenda Monroe, caught her attention. A few people besides Natasha turned their heads in that direction, startled by the sudden loud noise, but most turned away so they wouldn’t be caught staring at the poor woman’s extended sneezing fit. Natasha turned her head away as well, but kept watch out of the corner of her eye as the man at Monroe’s window leaned just a bit too far over the counter, reaching toward the sneezing woman to offer her a tissue.

In a move so subtle and smooth it had to speak to training, the man lifted Monroe’s keycard badge from where it was clipped on the lapel of her blazer, casually leaning back to his original position with the credentials tucked into the sleeve of his jacket. Brenda was too busy mopping at her leaking face to notice her badge had been stolen.

Natasha very deliberately did not tense up or go still, but kept her body language loose and unconcerned, apparently oblivious to what had just happened. But her attention was now laser-focused on the man as she reassessed him.

Casual clothing – jeans and a light jacket that, had Natasha gotten her hands on it, she could have used to conceal at least half a dozen long- and short-range weapons, firearms included. He was middle aged and his hair was going a bit thin, but under the somewhat baggy clothing he looked much more physically fit than average, and he moved with the sort of balance that Natasha knew to associate with combat training.

“I apologize for the inconvenience ma’am, it will be just a few moments before she swipes us in,” Randall announced, stepping back into his place at the teller window. Natasha made sure to throw out an understanding sigh, even as she strained to hear what the suspicious man was saying.

“You know what? If it’s gonna be awhile for the boss-lady to see us, could you point me in the direction of a restroom?” Brenda the teller pointed toward a hallway off to the side, and the man threw her a thankful smile and ambled off. He may not be able to get down to Sub-Level Four where the database could be accessed, but with credentials like that he could certainly access some of Hydra’s less well-guarded stores. Randall’s initial report had listed false identification, cash, and weapons – just to start. Natasha couldn’t let this unknown have free reign – she needed to shut whatever this was down before the building’s security was compromised by someone other than herself.

Natasha found Steve, standing at the supervisor’s teller window, and attempted to catch his attention, willing him to look her way. Unfortunately, he only did so when the supervisor excused herself and began to make her way towards Randall’s station.

Natasha had to act fast. “Excuse me for just a moment, but is there a ladies’ room down that hallway?”

Randall looked startled, but he quickly covered his confusion, glancing at his approaching supervisor as he responded. “Yes ma’am. Will you be long?”

“I’m not sure. If I’m more than five minutes, feel free to see another customer,” Natasha assured him apologetically, flicking her eyes over to Steve. Randall’s eyes widened, but he nodded quickly.

“Yes ma’am.”

Natasha quickly excused herself, leaving her contact to maintain cover with his supervisor, and walked toward the hallway at a reasonable pace for someone needing the restroom. The signs announcing the restrooms became visible as soon as she turned the corner, just out of eye line of the main floor. Natasha breezed past them, pushing open the door as she went and letting it fall closed behind her so that anyone listening would assume she’d gone in. She continued down the empty hallway, slipping a concealed knife from the sheath on her forearm down into her hand. No use panicking everyone with gunshots if she could take care of things quietly.

Natasha heard the quiet beep and then click of an electronic lock disengaging and hurried toward the sound as quietly as she could. She turned a corner just in time to see the man disappearing into a room with a heavy-duty security door. Natasha flew forward, hoping to get inside in time, but she was too late. She gave a silent sigh and strode back around the corner to wait. He had to come out sometime – hopefully she would be able to drop him before he even knew he had been followed.

* * *

Melanie was getting antsy – her dad had been gone too long, and she’d flipped through the entire waiting room magazine in her hands twice since he’d sat her down. He’d told her to wait in the seating area, on one of the fancy, uncomfortable couches while he took care of business with the teller, but then he’d gone into the back on his own. That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to go down to the basement for the database stuff. He’d said that’s what they really wanted – information on her condition. Other supplies – the ones they could get from the other floors – were just a consolation prize if things went wrong, he’d said. Did this mean something had gone wrong? That he’d gotten into trouble? A sick feeling began to twist in her gut. Where would he be, if she wasn’t there to help him? Where would she be without her dad?

She glanced around the waiting room again. The supervisor was moving to the back with the guy teller and a big muscly blond man she could only see the back of. At least he had a cute butt. The sneezy lady was helping another customer. It didn’t seem like anyone else would notice if Melanie slipped away into the back halls to try to find her dad.

Melanie could feel her heart hammering in her chest, but she pushed down the fear with a resolute nod and went to find her father.

* * *

Natasha had to give it to him – this guy was good. He must have sensed he was being followed somehow – she would have to figure out how she’d slipped after this was over. He had come out of the vault gun first, sweeping the hall like a professional.

Natasha had still gotten the drop on him. He was good. She was better.

As he took a wide turn around the corner where she was hiding she shot forward, closing the distance between them and grabbing his arms to control the gun before he could take proper aim. Instead of fighting her for control of the weapon like most people would do instinctively, he showed high caliber training by dropping his weight below her hold and then twisted out of the way by rolling past her legs, trying to knock her off balance. Natasha spun out the way but didn’t retreat, instead using her momentum to carry her around to his other side as he straightened back up from his crouch. He was quick to notice and tried to swing his gun arm toward her, but she had anticipated the move and was too close for that to matter. Natasha jabbed her small blade into the man’s wrist, causing his hand to spasm and the gun to drop. He let out a strangled yell of pain as the gun clattered to the floor and skidded a few feet away.

“Dad!”

Natasha’s head shot up at the cry, eyes taking in the pale, shocked face of the man’s supposed daughter at the end of the hallway.

The man tried to use the distraction to spin around back of her and get her in a hold, but Natasha used his own trick against him and dropped below the box of his arms before he could get a proper grip on her. Natasha jumped back to get some distance, to buy a moment to assess the new situation. The gun was just a few feet down the hall, the father now slumping against the wall, his arm bleeding sluggishly around the knife still protruding from it, the girl, no older than sixteen, pale and shaking but she appeared unhurt, unarmed–

Then the girl opened her mouth and screamed.

* * *

For Natasha, the next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Muffled sounds rising and falling beneath a blanket of high-pitched ringing, her vision periodically darkening around the edges as her center of balance swung wildly due to vertigo and her stomach sent bile up again and again to be choked down. The sensation of touch took a while to return, late enough that she was already being dragged forward by the time she realized what was happening.

Sounds began coming through more frequently, but it was like trying to understand the lyrics of a song being blasted at full volume through several walls. Natasha thought she recognized the sound of people shouting. The crack of a gunshot.

Natasha definitely recognized the feeling of being dropped on a hard floor and kicked in her already-tender ribs. The sonic blast had disoriented her, but pain was familiar. Natasha latched onto it, used it as a concrete way to connect back to her body, to re-enter the world around her. She kept her eyes closed for another moment. Breathed in. Breathed out. She felt like she’d been hit by a car, but luckily not one going fast enough to do permanent damage. Natasha had fought through worse pain than this.

“We’re missing some party guests. They must’ve taken the boss with the really good access. Go wait for them at the elevator, Peanut.”

Natasha managed to open her eyes, finally beating the nausea far enough down that she could ignore it. They were back in the lobby – the old guard, his gun probably taken under the threat of violence, and a few terrified patrons huddled in the center of the room, her attacker holding a gun with his off hand, his right arm still dripping blood but wrapped in a makeshift bandage. The girl disappeared around a corner, presumably headed to the elevator where–

Where Steve and Randall would be coming up when they had completed the objective.

And they would be met unawares by the girl, who was clearly enhanced. Or gifted. More and more gifted people had been popping up as of late, but with her father clearly knowledgeable about Hydra secrets, Natasha couldn’t discount the possibility that whatever had given her that power had been something deliberately done to her.

Natasha didn’t know if Steve could handle the girl on his own – didn’t know the extent of her powers, didn’t know who she was, didn’t know where they had come from…

Natasha hated not knowing.

Luckily, it seemed that her injured enemy was in the mood to talk.

He stomped up to her and hauled back to kick her once again. “Who do you work for?!” he shouted as the breath was knocked out of her.

Natasha put on a show of coughing and wheezing for even longer than she actually needed to. “Who do you think?!” she finally choked back at him, venom in her eyes that said he should know what had gotten him into this mess.

He took the bait, eyes widening and jaw clenching. He wandered a few steps away from her, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand holding the gun. His right arm was tucked protectively to her chest, staining his shirt with blood.

“You’re right,” he muttered, turning back to face her, eyes suddenly alight with a desperate energy. “I know who you are. Recognized you from your picture all over the news. You can change your hair but not your face. And what other hot little thing would be hanging around with that blond meathead who’s so obviously Captain America? You’re the Black Widow. Question is: how did you know I’d be here?”

Natasha hated having less information than an opponent. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that her choices had made her the most instantly recognizable spy in the world. She needed to go further off the grid – she’d underestimated the amount of time it took people to forget the last big news cycle. Still, he didn’t have to know he had her at a disadvantage.

“She’s not exactly subtle,” Natasha responded, feeling out the most obvious pressure point – the girl.

“She doesn’t need to be subtle,” he shot back too quickly. Natasha gave a not-entirely-feigned wince as she moved to sit upright, throwing out a pained whimper to soothe the man’s ego about revealing a sore spot.

“Yeah,” Natasha responded, breathing a hint of fear into her voice, “I’m getting that.” Her opponent growled and shook his head, dismissing her to go circle the other hostages, twitchy as a caged animal.

Natasha didn’t want him near the hostages – too many variables, too many disparate influences, too many ways things could go wrong. She needed his attention back.

“She’s yours,” Natasha declared, honing back in on the opening she’d found, making her tone smug and knowing to rile him up, snap his attention back to her.

It worked. “Shut up!” he marched back to where she sat on the floor, leaned over, and hit her across the face with his gun. Natasha’s hair whipped around her face and hid the triumph in her eyes.

He stumbled back out of reach, breathing hard, and Natasha kept her head tilted down in apparent submission, letting him have his moment of victory. Getting so close to her without repercussions would build his confidence enough for him give her an opening. She just had to get him there.

After a few moments, the gunman seemed to gather himself to go check on the other hostages again. Natasha decided to allow it – wouldn’t want him catching on that she was making herself a distraction, and he was hooked on his hatred of her now – Natasha was confident she could pull his attention whenever she needed to.

A high, distant screech split the air and made everyone flinch. Natasha guessed that they weren’t writhing in pain because of the distance and the walls between them, but Steve–

Another distant screech – closer this time, louder and a bit more painful. Everyone seemed to hold their breath in the silence that followed. A third screech, moving away again. On and off for several minutes. Natasha tried to put together a picture of what must be happening, but she didn’t know enough about the girl’s power. The only thing she did know was that Steve was apparently still in the fight.

* * *

“Hear that?” chuckled the gunman when a lull in the distant noise finally prevailed for over two minutes. “She’s giving your buddy a run for his money.” He looked proud. Natasha decided to explore that.

“You really think your daughter can beat Captain America?”

The gunman snorted, but Natasha could tell it was more bravado than genuine confidence. “You’ve seen her in action. Hell, you’ve felt it! He doesn’t stand a chance. She’s… she’s something special.”

Natasha saw the wonder in his face and made an educated guess that the girl’s power hadn’t come from this man. “Terrigenesis must’ve been around the time the water supply first got tainted. She’s had practice.”

Natasha’s opponent started. “How did–?! Never mind! None of you are can stop me – not even Captain America.” He swept his gun around the room, causing the other hostages to gasp and flinch. The pregnant woman whimpered. Natasha needed to pull his attention back to her, fast.

‘Me,’ he’d said, not ‘we.’ Interesting. Natasha decided to pull the thread of his pride to see if she could make him unravel. “You think you can do in one day what better men have been trying to do for seventy years?”

The gunman turned his attention to Natasha and scoffed, but at least he’d turned his attention to her. “They didn’t have my secret weapon.”

The objectification didn’t match his earlier amazement at the idea of what his daughter had become. He couldn’t view her as both a wonder and a weapon, not consistently. Not comfortably. Cognitive dissonance was a beautiful thing, to an interrogator. “Right,” Natasha snorted dismissively. “Your little ‘peanut’ packs quite a punch.”

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” Natasha’s opponent was quick to say, obviously defensive. “Nothing you or the Captain can do about it.”

Daddy-daughter issues, daddy-daughter issues… Natasha didn’t remember her own father, but she did know that men were sensitive about female relatives and sex. Natasha decided to throw that to the wall to see if it stuck. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s got a way with the ladies. She might decide it’s time to spread her wings, _daddy_.”

“Bitch!” the gunman cried, rushing forward to kick at Natasha again. “My girl would never leave me!” the blow connected and sent Natasha sprawling. She twisted her limbs under her so that she could spring up the next time he was in range. Her opponent didn’t notice, too lost in his own temper. “She does what I say, when I say, how I say, because I love her. Something you wouldn’t understand–!” Natasha almost had him.

And that’s when Edgar Stokes, semi-retired security guard, decided to be a hero.

* * *

Steve and Natasha’s contact had been ambushed coming out of the elevator that took them up from Sub-Level Four. Steve hadn’t understood at first that it was the girl’s screams that were hitting him like a truck, and by the time he’d managed to steel his nerves enough to fight through the pain and vertigo, the only thing to do had been to make a tactical retreat.

He’d lost his contact – Randy? – somewhere in the maze of hallways at the back of the building, but he hoped the man was alerting Natasha while Steve played an exhausting game of cat and mouse through the halls. Steve wished he had his shield. As it was, he couldn’t get close enough to the girl to incapacitate her – she had a hell of a range advantage.

Steve’s only hope now was to sneak up on her and… knock her out? Something. He didn’t know how many more of her sonic blasts he could take. His ears were already bleeding.

Steve thought he heard a door closing around the corner of the nearest hallway. He snuck forward, hoping to catch the girl by surprise. He peeked around the corner to see–

“Buck–?!”

His friend looked terrible – dirty and exhausted, eyes wide and startled when they locked on Steve’s. Steve hadn’t meant to shout, he’d just – he hadn’t been expecting – he couldn’t process –

When Steve didn’t do anything else for a moment, Bucky cautiously – like he was afraid any movement might set off a chain reaction – finished zipping up the backpack in his hands and then carefully hauled it around to his back. All Steve could do was stare.

Bucky looked down an adjacent hall, away from Steve, and then back at his one-time friend. Then, hesitantly, Bucky opened his mouth and–

A piercing shriek echoed down the hall from the direction of the lobby, making Steve flinch and whirl around. When he turned back to look at Bucky, the man was gone.

* * *

Stokes jumped on the gunman’s back, trying to tackle him or get him into some kind of hold, but the guard was neither young nor fit nor well trained enough to do anything but get thrown to the ground with a pained grunt.

Luckily the time it took the gunman to throw the old man off of him and swing his weapon around to take aim was also plenty of time for Natasha to spring forward.

Natasha once again grabbed her opponent’s gun arm to control his weapon, but this time it was only in a one-handed grip, meaning that the move to disable him was much quicker. She turned his wrist toward the ceiling and yanked his arm down across her knee, cracking his elbow with a familiar sickening crunch. The man screamed and dropped the gun, which he inadvertently kicked across the room as he flailed and went down hard to the ground.

Knowing that the gun was the only weapon currently in play, Natasha ran for it.

Natasha had just reached the gun – had just swung to aim at her opponent – when the girl ran back into the lobby. “Dad! Are you okay?! I heard you scream and I couldn’t find him and I thought he might have come here and I was afraid he’d get you and–” The teenager skidded to a halt at the scene in front of her. Her father, bleeding and broken on the ground. Natasha, pointing a gun at him.

It only took a fraction of a second. Natasha saw the girl’s gasp – an intake of breath that would no doubt fuel her one of her devastating attacks. Recognized the girl as the only viable threat still left. Recognized that they were no match for her power. Recognized the desperate love in the girl’s eyes – the fear and horror that someone had hurt her father. Recognized that there would be no talking. Recognized that there would certainly be collateral damage if such a powerful, volatile weapon were to be unleashed with these civilians present.

Recognized what she had to do.

And acted.

* * *

“You’re sure?” Natasha asked Steve, staring at the police car where her opponent sat fuming. Natasha did not look at the white sheet draped over the body across the room – did not acknowledge the brightly-painted fingernails peeking out from underneath the corner of it. Natasha did not dwell. She knew better.

“It was him,” answered Steve. He was also very obviously not looking at the body. Natasha didn’t want to read his face just now.

“We’ll search the footage. Try to figure out what he was after here.”

“Yeah.”

Natasha could only move forward. If she looked back she would drown. “We have more information now. Maybe new leads. One step closer to finding him.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Steve was unhappy. Not with her exactly, she didn’t think. Not consciously. But she’d let him down, somehow.

She would have to do better next time.


	3. Bucky

“because he’s been treated like one” 

* * *

Recon wasn’t his job. He was the last step in the plan. He was the one they called in when everything else had been tried already. But nothing had been the same since the helicarriers. The man that refused to stop repeating his name. The museum that held all the answers to unasked questions out in the open for anyone to see.

Recon wasn’t his job. He could wait for hours, silent and still, for the perfect shot. But that was back when other people were expected to do his thinking for him. His mind used to be so clear. Focused. The target. The kill.

But ever since the bridge… his thoughts were a tangled, bloody mess. Things had been coming back to him in stuttering stops and starts – he could spend days desperate to name the echo of a specific sense-memory that stayed frustratingly out of reach, or he could be bowled over by a blast of visceral imagery so terrifying that he lost all sense of time and place, transported back into horror and pain. And the waiting, the watching, the planning… it left him too much time alone with his thoughts.

He was getting impatient to move. The constant internal debate had been dragging on for too long. The drop site held vital supplies that he needed to get his hands on. He couldn’t keep going as he had been – nothing but the clothes he’d managed to steal on his back and whatever he could scrounge out of dumpsters. Any IDs there had probably been compromised with the data breach, but there were other things – weapons, cash – that would be invaluable. He needed to get out of the country. The net had been steadily tightening for weeks now, and he wasn’t confident that he could evade his pursuers – on either side – for much longer. The man with the wings had nearly caught him back in Baltimore. Would have, if his enhancements hadn’t let him hold his breath for far longer than the average human.

He was reasonably sure Hydra had abandoned the place to its own cover – none of the people he saw going in and out regularly had appeared to be agents, just the civilian camouflage. He could do this – in and out before any sort of internal security could flag him and summon a response team to grab him.

It was easy enough figure out who was going to be home sick the next day as the closing shift stumbled out the bank one evening, bleary-eyed and sniffling. Following one home and stealing their security credentials while they slept had been child’s play. He was used to moving unnoticed through the shadows.

He was up all night doing recon, making sure no one else was surveying the building. He watched the morning shift stumble in – four employees out of what should have been twelve – and resolved to complete the retrieval mission he’d set for himself. He waited until late afternoon, until the bank got busy enough that all of them – two women, a young man, an old-timer with a sidearm – would be on the main floor. Then he made his move.

Bucky Barnes clipped on the backpack that held his most precious possessions in the world – the scribbled rantings of a broken mind trying desperately to pull itself back together – and moved.

* * *

John Randall resisted the urge to check his watch again. He knew what time it was, he knew what time Agent Romanoff would be there (two minutes to go) and the nervous tick would just give him away, which would be unacceptable. Enough had already gone wrong today.

It was all Brenda’s fault. She’d gotten sick just like many of the other people in the office had after he’d added that contaminant to their coffee machine. She had said yesterday that she wouldn’t be in today, meaning it would have been just him and his overworked, easily-distracted supervisor on this shift. But there Brenda was, picking up the extra hours despite her hacking and wheezing and sniffling and leaking. All because she was saving up for a vacation to the Bahamas.

John wished he was in the Bahamas. Good God, he could go for a mai tai and a nap on the beach right about now.

There was Romanoff getting into the back of the short line with Rogers. John counted the number of customers ahead of them and tried to do some quick mental math to estimate at which windows they’d end up.

_Three, two, one…_

“May I help the next customer?”

Rogers walked up to him, hands tucked into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if that would somehow make him seem less ridiculously huge.

“Hi, I need to access level four,” the man said, glancing around the room in a way that was apparently meant to be surreptitious but just came off as paranoid. John watched Romanoff get called to Brenda’s window and cursed his crap luck. Rogers was caught by John’s incredulous look and had the decency to look abashed. “…it’s where my safety deposit box is.”

“Account number and identification please, sir.” Rogers rattled off a string of meaningless numbers and handed John what must have the best fake ID he’d ever seen. John couldn’t help but be impressed. Maybe this day – this mission – was going to turn out alright after all.

John scanned the teller line and saw his supervisor Deborah – the only one who could order the elevator to take them to Sub-Level Four – step out of line with another pair of customers, a middle aged man and a teenage girl, and head toward the back halls where the secure elevator could be found. “Everything is in order, sir. Unfortunately we will have to wait until my supervisor has come back up from level four. To ensure that she can see other customers while we go.”

Rogers followed John’s gaze to the retreating people and realized he must mean they needed to wait until the vault would be empty of other people. “…Right.”

* * *

He found what he was looking for easily – locks on storage containers snapping off with a twist of his cybernetic hand. Cash, guns, ammo, burner phones, even a few grenades. Bucky packed whatever he deemed useful into his backpack as quickly and efficiently as he could, unfamiliar nerves twisting in his gut. He’d never been so anxious on a mission before. He’d never felt much of anything on a mission before Steve Rogers. It was throwing him off. Bucky frowned to himself and hurried his movements. He’d been here too long. He needed to get out.

There. Mission complete. Only exfil left now. Bucky was so relieved to be done with it that he went straight out the security door without waiting around to listen beforehand.

“Sir! Sir, you can’t be back here!” Bucky froze and locked eyes with a curly-haired middle-aged woman at the far end of the hall who looked like she’d just been slapped by the unexpected presence of a stranger in her domain. Behind her stood a middle-aged man – room for concealed weapons, musculature and stance suggesting knowledge of hand to hand combat – and a teenage girl who had frozen with one brightly-painted fingernail caught between her teeth.

Bucky cursed himself. Sloppy. Too sloppy. With Hydra, something like this would have meant a bullet for all three interlopers and a severe punishment for triggering a resource-depleting cover up. Then again, this never would have happened when the Asset was back with Hydra. Sloppy.

The older woman was turning to run back the way they came – to call for security, presumably – when the man behind her pulled a gun and shot her once in the chest with the silenced pistol. The girl behind him let out a yelp before slamming her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. The woman who had been shot crumpled to the floor, wheezing. Blood quickly pooled around her where she lay slumped in an awkward heap. Bucky knew the sound of a punctured lung when he heard it. She didn’t have long.

“Now…” said the man, swinging his gun arm up to take aim, looking from Bucky to the door behind him, eyes calculating. “Who the hell are you?”

The girl behind the man took a shaky breath and lowered her trembling hands from in front of her mouth. “…Hail… Hydra?” she asked tremulously, the words clearly unfamiliar to her – lacking the venomous conviction with which they were traditionally spoken. The girl looked to the man for confirmation. He nodded in approval without taking his eyes off of Bucky. Or lowering his weapon.

“What have you got there, buddy?” the man asked, gesturing to Bucky’s backpack. The faux-friendliness in his voice reminded Bucky of what little he could remember of a few his handlers – sure of their power and one wrong move away from enacting violence.

There was a hallway to Bucky’s right. He might be able to make it around the corner before the man could react to his movement by pulling the trigger. Bucky took a deep breath, trying not to telegraph the tensing of his limbs. “I’m… leaving.”

Bucky bolted for the exit. Bullets buried themselves into the wall where he had just stood milliseconds before.

“Peanut!” Bucky heard the man bark as he sprinted away, deeper into the labyrinthine building than he had ever intended to go, “go get him! Whatever he got from that vault, I want it!”

* * *

Somewhere along the way he’d run into the girl. She’d done… _something_ that had thrown him bodily into a door, left him staggering and reeling like he’d just been hit by a truck, an incessant ringing in his ears that drowned out any hope of coherent thought. As he tried to stagger to his feet, he saw her approach him through the haze of darkness clouding his vision. Felt her yank the backpack off of his shoulders, pushing him away to tear it loose. She knelt down to unzip it, to see what was inside, and – no, no, no, she was Hydra, Hydra couldn’t see him all spread out on the page like that, he couldn’t let them in his head again, he couldn’t–

Bucky lunged for the girl, and was met with another ear-splitting wave of percussive force that propelled him away from her. She sat there, clutching his bag and trembling as he shook his head, tried to shake off the pain, shake his mind clear. He looked up at her and she took a deep breath – it was her screams, Bucky realized. That’s what she was doing.

Before she could let loose on him again, he turned and ran. A few seconds later, he heard her scramble to follow him, light footsteps slapping on the tile floor.

The adrenaline had flooded Bucky’s system, conjuring up sense-memories of similar moments of fight or flight, so loud and all-encompassing that it was all Bucky could do to remember that he was being chased through a bank, not fleeing an airstrike in humid woods, not chasing down a desperate woman through her cold and echoing mansion, not hopping rooftops to cut off a fleeing vehicle’s escape route during a thunderstorm that pounded him with falling rain–

Bucky was so desperate to avoid drowning in his own thoughts that stumbling out into the lobby took him completely and utterly by surprise. He came to a dead stop, skidding a few feet forward on the marble floor, eyes wide and unseeing as they flicked from person to person, around the room, frantically trying to remember what he was doing, why he was here, who was the target, _what was his mission_ –

“Bucky?!”

The cry startled him out of his whirlwind thoughts and he honed in on the speaker – the target from the bridge, the punk, _Steve_ –

 “Help!” came the scream from behind him, a girl clutching a familiar backpack stumbling into the lobby from the hallway behind where he – where he’d just come from because… because–

“He shot someone!” the girl cried, hugging his bag even closer to her chest, like a shield or a child’s safety blanket. He’d shot a lot of people, all the memories – screams and begging and the silent view through a scope that showed a body dropping – all jumbled together into an indistinguishable mess in his pounding head, which one was she talking about–?  “He’s crazy! He’s going to kill us!”

“Get down on the ground!” shouted a heavy, gray-haired man standing in front of the outer doors, a pistol gripped in white-knuckled hands. The man looked as terrified as Bucky felt. His finger was trembling on the trigger.

“No!” cried Steve, holding his hands up and moving in between Bucky and the man with the gun. “It’s alright. We can – we can handle this, just–” Steve was looking between the two men, clearly torn, before he made his decision and focused on what he believed to be the biggest potential threat in the room. “Buck, it’s okay. Do you know who I am?”

“Edgar,” came a low, firm call from up by the teller windows. “Take your finger off the trigger. You’ll shoot someone by accident.” Bucky’s eyes flicked over to the woman who had spoken – she was holding her own gun on Bucky now, tense and lithe and clearly dangerous. Her own trigger discipline was superb – trigger finger ready along the side of her firearm, poised to act but out of the way of an accidental discharge. Something itched in the back of his mind – a memory that hadn’t quite been knocked loose.

“He attacked us!” cried the girl, scurrying out from behind him and circling toward the security guard by the outer exit, giving Bucky a wide berth. The girl – the man–!

The gunman was still loose in the building, hunting him. Hydra. He would alert Hydra. They would be here soon, they would catch him, they would– ”

Bucky panicked. He turned abruptly on his heel and fled down a deserted hallway.

“Bucky, no! Wait!” Steve called after him, taking off at a dead sprint after his friend.

“Stop!” called the security guard, sounding strained. The older man did not move to follow however, unsure if he should pursue or evacuate the people in the lobby.

Natasha ran to follow Steve, calling to the security guard over her shoulder: “get everybody out of here!” Then she was gone as well.

Edgar Stokes gave a shaky sigh and lowered his gun. He was definitely going to retire. Make more time for his grandkids. Take up painting like he’d always planned. Henrietta would be so relieved.

Edgar took a few deep breaths and tried to gather himself. It was his responsibility to make sure everyone got out safe now. “Alright folks,” he called, trying to sound authoritative, “everybody outside–”

A shriek sliced through the air and a wave of force knocked Edgar back into the wall. He dropped his gun on impact before slumping down the wall, ears ringing as his vision went dark.

“Yeah,” said the teenage girl, picking up his fallen weapon and turning it toward the shocked crowd of onlookers, “we’re not doing that.”

* * *

Natasha and Steve lost Bucky in the twists and turns of the building’s hallways, designed deliberately to confuse anyone who didn’t know exactly where they were going. They came upon the secure elevator that led down to the building’s sub-levels just as its doors opened.

“Bucky?” Steve cried just as an unfamiliar man stepped out into view.

The man started, clearly not expecting company. “Who the hell is Bucky?” the man cried, reaching into his jacket–

“Steve, drop!” yelled Natasha from behind him, and Steve threw himself to the floor unquestioningly. Two gunshots cracked above his head – one from behind, one from in front. Then Natasha was running past him, tackling the unfamiliar man to the ground and kicking his previously-concealed gun back towards Steve. Steve grabbed it and sprang to his feet, taking aim at the downed man to cover Natasha, who already had him on the ground and had produced a pair of zip ties from somewhere on her person.

“You okay?” Steve asked as Natasha wrenched the man’s arms behind his back. He gave a strangled yell as she jostled his bleeding shoulder.

“Fine. He flinched when I hit him. Bullet went into the wall,” Natasha reported with a sharp jerk of her chin, and Steve followed her movement to neat little hole a bit to the left of where she must have been standing.

“Who is he? What was he doing down here?”

“No idea,” Natasha replied, voice clipped as she patted the man down for any more weapons. “But this elevator leads down to the secure database… There’s no telling how long he had time to mess around down there.”

Steve knelt on the ground to look the man in the eye. “Who are you? What were you doing here?” he demanded.

The man only grinned at him, eyes shining with a manic energy Steve didn’t understand. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

Natasha reached around to the inside chest pocket of the man’s jacket then, brushing past his bullet wound more roughly than strictly necessary. The man cried out in pain before steeling himself, glaring at her as he hissed panting breaths through his teeth. Natasha’s hand came back out gripping a high-tech flash drive. She looked down at the man imperiously, totally unbothered by the look of hatred he was throwing at her. “And what do you mean by that?” she asked him, voice neutral in a way that Steve had learned to associate with danger. The man began to laugh heartily, refusing to say another word.

“Bucky’s still out there. Can you–?” Steve gestured to the man on the ground.

Natasha nodded. “He won’t be a problem. Security should have called the police by now – I’ll go turn him in.”

Steve nodded sharply and took off further into the halls.

* * *

Bucky turned a corner – how many had it been now? He was going in circles. Had to be. He was having trouble keeping track of where – when – he was. He needed his notes. His books. His backpack. Needed it like air. When he got worked up it was the only thing that kept him from drowning in the memories – pouring all his screaming thoughts out onto the page, recorded and categorized, turned from raging thoughts to silent letters. It was the only way he could finally find a modicum of peace.

Where was his backpack?

An image flashed into the forefront of his mind – actually relevant for once in his nightmare of a life. The skinny teenage girl with the colorful fingernails. She’d had it, back in the lobby. He needed to go back for it. There was a chance he could take it from her, even with her power. That’s what he had to believe. It was the only way to calm his racing heart, slow his panicked breathing. He could do this. He should be able to do this. If he was smart enough, if he was lucky enough.

He was certainly desperate enough to try.

He couldn’t – wouldn’t – fight her but… But he’d recognized the uncertainty in her eyes. Remembered her orders. Her handler wanted what Bucky had taken from the vault. That was her mission. He could sacrifice his supplies for his notebooks. She could let him have his things without having to disobey. He could make her see.

The thought of having his backpack within reach again gave him a tenuous calm – enough to find his way back to the lobby in a fraction of the time it had taken him to flee to the place where he’d had his brief breakdown.

The girl was standing out in the open, holding a gun on a group of huddled civilians with one hand and chewing on the nails of the other. His backpack was on the ground a few feet away from where she stood – too close to grab without her interfering. Bucky made no effort to conceal the sound of his approaching footsteps, and she whirled to face him as he entered the cavernous lobby.

“You again!” She looked pale and shocked. The gun was in both hands now, pointed at him. Bucky was experienced enough to know from a glance that if she fired it would be a gut shot, not a quick kill. She clearly didn’t know what she was doing. If not for that voice of hers, he could kill her in half a heartbeat.

He felt a little sick at the realization, and blinked in surprise. He never felt anything at the thought of killing anyone. No one except Steve, back before Bucky had even known his name.

Bucky raised his gloved hands slowly and took a gentle step toward her. “You can have what I took out of the vault.”

The girl blinked and reared back, gun dropping to point at his feet. “I – what?” she asked, clearly out of her depth. Bucky took another step forward. The girl gulped and the gun came back up – a shot to the chest this time. “I can’t let you leave,” she said, voice trembling. “He said you weren’t allowed to leave. Don’t!”

Bucky paused in his approach and they eyed each other, two beaten dogs meeting in an alley, both willing – but neither wanting – to fight.

“That’s not what he said,” Bucky contradicted the girl softly. “Your orders were to retrieve what I took from the vault. You can have it.”

The girl bit her lip, her eyes searching the room, clearly lost without her handler – clearly wanting, but unable, to make the call for herself. Bucky knew the feeling. The gun she held was pointed at the floor now, as she drooped in uncertainty. He took another slow step forward.

The girl’s eyes snapped up and she actually stumbled back a step as if struck. “I’ll hurt you! I can hurt you!” she cried, but the gun did not come back up.

Bucky paused, looking her dead in the eye. “I know.”

The girl chewed on her lip again – worrying it so much that it turned a harsh, angry red. “Ugh!” she finally snapped. “What is in there that’s so freaking important?!” She skittered toward the backpack, staring at Bucky the whole time, gun back in one hand, which hung limply at her side. Bucky didn’t advance any further – he knew she didn’t need the gun.

The girl crouched down by the backpack and unzipped it with her free hand. Bucky winced as the harsh sound echoed through the cavernous room, grinding against the marble floors. Cautiously, as if she were afraid something inside might bite her, the girl reached in and shuffled some things around, eyes going wide at the weapons and cash.

Throwing Bucky a suspicious look, the girl carefully placed the gun down on the ground next to her, within easy reach. She had both hands inside the bag now, shuffling things around without quite pulling them out, eyes flicking erratically between what she was examining, the man in front of her asking for it back, and the hostages she’d taken on her handler’s orders.

* * *

Bucky heard papers rustling, but he knew the moment that she found his things – her eyes widened and began jumping back and forth to skim the pages. When she looked back up at him, they were full of tears.

“Peanut!”

Bucky and the girl whirled around to face one of the hallway entrances, where the Black Widow had just emerged, half-dragging the girl’s bleeding handler. The woman dropped him immediately to free her hands and draw her weapon, pointing it squarely at Bucky.

“Dad?! Dad!” the girl cried, and then she let out an unholy screech – producing a visible shockwave of displaced air that slammed into Steve’s partner, who was thrown backwards. The girl’s handler – her father? – kicked the fallen woman’s gun away from her and rushed toward the girl. He dropped to his knees beside her, shouldering her out of the way so that he could turn to the side awkwardly and reach into the backpack – no doubt wanting to use one of the many knives Bucky had stashed to cut through his bonds.

The teenager stood shakily, eyes locked on Bucky, who made no move to interfere.

“It’s just… it’s just you. Why did you need to have this so bad?! Why did you make me fight you? Why did you make me hurt you?” the girl’s voice was choked.

“I’m not the one who made you do it.”

The man finally sawed through the zip ties on his wrists, which fell away with a twang. His face turned to a mask of horror as he continued to examine the contents of Bucky’s backpack. Bucky took a halting step forward – somehow it was different than when the girl had done it – but didn’t want to antagonize her after the fresh reminder of what she could do. “Peanut,” the man said, voice full of manic terror. “That’s the Winter Soldier! Do you know what he could do to us?! Kill him! End this!”

The girl looked like she was about to throw up, looking between her handler and Bucky. “I…”

“Melanie! Do it! Now, Peanut! Listen to your father!” the man said, struggling to his feet and clutching at his bleeding shoulder with the opposite hand.

Something lit up inside Bucky’s chest. “Your name’s Melanie?”

“Yeah,” the girl – Melanie, Melanie, _Melanie_ – responded, voice quavering.

“Do! As! I! Say!” the man shouted at her, pale and swaying on his feet. The blood loss was clearly getting to him, driving him to the kind of out-of-control desperation that came with fearing for one’s life.

Melanie looked back at him, eyes wide and full of tears.

“Is this what you want?”

“What?” Melanie gasped, turning back to Bucky at his quiet question.

“What do you want?” Bucky asked her, searching her eyes for that same spark of… of the same _something_ that he’d felt when he pulled Steve from the water. He was sure it was there. He felt it.

Melanie smiled at him, tremulously, the motion causing the tears pooled in her eyes to trickle down her cheeks. “What did you do?” she asked him, focused on his face – intense and desperate and hopeful.

Bucky shook his head, the unfamiliar sensation of a half-smile – bitter and subdued, but there – pulling at his lips. “Not what they wanted me to.”

Melanie took a step toward him.

“Get back here you little bitch!” snarled her handler, who took a staggering step toward her. The man’s knees buckled underneath him, and he sprawled to the floor.

Melanie took another hesitant step toward Bucky. “I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

Bucky shrugged. “Only if you stay.”

“No!” yelled Melanie’s handler, suddenly so furious he was practically frothing at the mouth, pale and volatile from blood loss. “You don’t leave! You don’t leave me! You need me!” the man stumbled backward on his knees, toward Bucky’s backpack. Bucky’s heart stuttered.

“You hear me you little freak?!” the man screamed. He reached into the backpack and came back out with one of the handful of grenades that had been in the weapons cache. “You bitch!” He activated it and hurled it toward where Melanie and Bucky were standing.

Melanie screamed.

* * *

The aftermath of the explosion had been chaos – smoke and ash and the building’s sprinkler system raging to life, soaking everything as the fire alarm blared. Bucky had regained his senses quickly, used to dealing with pain and disorientation.

Melanie’s sonic scream had sent the grenade flying back toward her father – away from where she and Bucky had been standing, the same side of the room where Steve’s friend had been struggling to get back to her feet unnoticed. It had detonated somewhere between the murderous man and where the hostages had been huddled, doing their best not to draw any attention to themselves while the armed and unstable individuals had had their showdown.

For most of them it hadn’t been enough to save their lives.

But there was nothing anyone could do about that now.

Bucky had turned to see Melanie fleeing for the exits, apparently unharmed. He hoped she made it somewhere safe. He had just enough time to glimpse Steve running in through the smoke and falling water, crouching by his partner to help her to her feet, before Bucky bolted for his backpack and fled in the confusion.

Bucky ran until he couldn’t run anymore. Considering his enhancements, he had left the bank several miles behind. He ducked into an alley to catch his breath. He hadn’t seen anyone following him – not even Steve. Steve the hero. Probably stayed behind the save the ones who could be saved.

Bucky thought of the girl’s smile as she had ignored her father’s orders.

He didn’t know if James Buchanan Barnes would have thought it was worth it – that girl’s freedom for those people’s lives. But he wasn’t quite that man anymore.

And Bucky wanted her to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Captain America Reverse Big Bang. Inspirational art and chapter banners created by the amazing SgtGraves.


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